


The Rigor of Southern Suns

by delgaserasca



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Episode: s02e05 Amok Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:40:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24701704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delgaserasca/pseuds/delgaserasca
Summary: After the circumstances of the Enterprise’s detour to Vulcan, it takes a little while for symptoms to emerge.While events on Vulcan had averted Spock's descent into theplak tow, Jim soon starts to notice some changes.
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock
Comments: 20
Kudos: 191





	The Rigor of Southern Suns

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greenforsnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenforsnow/gifts).



After the circumstances of the Enterprise’s detour to Vulcan, it takes a little while for symptoms to emerge. Despite Spock’s insistence to the contrary, McCoy puts him on mandatory leave for three days, with instructions to report to sickbay for observation every day until he’s satisfied that the last of the hormones have been summarily flushed from Spock’s system. 

“Doctor, it is unnecessary—”

“When you have a medical degree then you can tell me what’s necessary,” Bones snaps. “Until then you can keep your trap shut and do as you’re told.”

Jim leaves them bickering, glad that they’re still able to. Bones had patched him up before, the regen making quick work of his cuts and bruises. Thinking about Vulcan leaves him sweating, ship’s air trailing across the back of his neck forcing a pleasant shiver. He makes his way to the bridge, clocking in for gamma, and doesn’t think much of it.

* * *

The next day is uneventful. The Enterprise is en route to Altair when Command sends instructions to redirect them, too late to properly participate in the ceremonies, and Jim tugs at his undershirt a little as he works on his report. Unwilling to expose Spock to Command’s scrutiny, nevertheless it’s imperative that he gives a worthy account of events to mitigate the slap on the wrist they’re bound to get. By the end of the day he’s up to speed on that and his other paperwork, enough that he’s able to give Spock’s workload a once-over before the end of the shift.

It’s particularly warm on the bridge that day but when he checks the environmental controls they’re at ship normal. Jim wonders briefly whether he’s coming down with something then heads to the mess to get dinner.

* * *

“Captain,” Spock says, meeting Jim as he exits his quarters to head out for breakfast. It hasn’t been the easiest morning - he hadn’t slept well the night before, unable to get comfortable. 

“Spock,” Jim greets in return. “Off to see Bones?”

“Indeed,” Spock replies. “Are you well, Captain?”

Jim wonders how bad he must look for Spock to ask after him - especially with everything he’s been through the past week.

“Nothing a little food and coffee won’t fix,” he says as they head into the turbo lift. “How are you getting along?” he asks, somewhat vaguely. Jim tries his best not to ask Spock how he feels, if only to stave off the stock response. Despite what Spock might have to say on the topic, Jim knows the events on Vulcan have made him fragile. 

“Adequately,” Spock replies, hands clasped behind his back as the lift heads to his floor. “I will be able to resume my duties tomorrow.”

“Well, now,” Jim says, laying a hand on his back. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. See what the good doctor has to say.” Spock is warm through his shirt. Jim wonders if the effects of _pon farr_ have truly subsided. While Spock seems to have regained his equilibrium, it wouldn’t do to push him before he’s ready. Jim pats him on the back once. “Have McCoy send me his report once he’s done,” he says, cutting off Spock’s protests.

He carries on to the mess by himself.

* * *

Bones collars him later that day. “Jim, I think you’d best come with me,” he says, covert in the way he can be when the situation calls for it.

In sickbay he leads Jim straight to his office, engaging the lock before he settles down.

“What is it, Bones?” Jim asks. “Is it Spock?”

“Who else?” Bones asks. “I’m worried about his readings,” he adds. “Everything’s curving towards his baseline, but they’re not leveling off as expected. On the whole his hormones are reducing to acceptable levels, but his core temperature is still higher than I’d like.”

Jim leans over Bones’ shoulder to get a better look at his terminal.

“Is he in danger?” 

“No,” Bones admits, “but he’s not in the clear either.”

Jim thinks to how warm Spock had been to the touch in the turbolift earlier that day - how hot he’d been under the combined fury of Vulcan’s sun and the _plak tow_. He feels sweat break out in the small of his back just thinking about it. 

“Are you saying he’s not fit to resume his position?” Jim asks. “He was displaying symptoms for a while before we knew something was wrong. Surely it makes sense if it takes him time to return to normal.”

Bones frowns. “That’s the thing - he seems fine otherwise. Based on our daily assessments I’d be fine sending him back to duty, but these numbers—” he jabs at the screen “—these don’t lie, and they don’t tell me anything promising.”

“You think the symptoms will recur?” Jim asks.

“I think I don’t know enough to say,” Bones replies, “but I don’t like it, either way.”

* * *

Jim stops by Spock’s door at the end of the day, unwilling to make a decision until he’s seen Spock for himself. The way things stand, Jim’s inclined to let Spock come back the next day, but Bones’ reticence is making him cautious. There’s a lot about Vulcan biology that remains a mystery to Jim, and while he’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, he wonders whether it had been too easy, Spock’s fever abating the way that it had.

Hell, they’re three days out from Vulcan and Jim still flushes just thinking about it - Spock’s unexpected weight, and the low, viscous smell of him as they’d tussled in the sand. When Jim had made it back to the ship he’d found grains of ochre and rust sand embedded in the weave of his trousers and lining the cuts of his palms. They’d seemed to glow under the bright lights in sickbay, burnished like hot coals. Spock, too, had been burning. 

“Captain,” Spock greets him as he enters. The air in Spock’s room is cooler than usual - no doubt to accommodate Spock’s elevated temperature. Another sign, Jim realizes, of Spock’s ongoing imbalance.

“Just thought I’d drop by,” says Jim, rubbing his hands together for want of something to do with them. “See how you are.”

“As you can see for yourself, Captain,” Spock says, “I am perfectly well.”

“Yes?” Jim muses. “No lingering effects? Aching joints, mild fever?”

Spock frowns. “You have spoken to Doctor McCoy.”

“I’m not asking McCoy,” Jim says gently, “I’m asking you.”

He’s not inclined to say it out loud, but Spock is never more endearing to Jim than when he’s in a snit and trying not to show it. Something about how that cool Vulcan reserve of his can’t cover for low-banked irritation is either indicative of his exposure to the crew or an ubiquitous, implacable frustration that’s mostly harmless. Flying bowls of soup aside, Spock isn’t prone to losing his temper, but the fact that he has one - that it’s clear that there’s something at work, simmering away beneath that calm facade - gives Jim a kind of hope that Spock, like Jim, is a little messy too. 

He tries not to think about why that’s comforting.

“My mind is clear,” Spock answers, having taken the time to consider Jim’s inquiry properly. That he didn’t just rebuff the question is evidence enough of improvement; five days ago Spock would have shut him down at even the suggestion. “Though my temperature remains above normal, I am performing adequately in all other respects.” He looks at Jim carefully. “Captain, are you well?”

“Hmm?”

“You are suffering an increase in vasodilation about your cheeks and brow,” says Spock, “and you have been rubbing your hands, usually an indication of some agitation.” He frowns mildly. “Captain, allow me to assure you that although I am not fully recovered, the fever has passed. I am not a danger to you,” he adds quietly.

That rouses Jim. “Of course you’re not, Mr Spock,” he says, “that had never been a concern.”

“Then you will permit me to resume my duties?” Spock asks. 

Jim sighs. By all accounts Spock’s fine except for his core temperature, and that alone isn’t enough to mark him down as unfit for duty. Despite his own anxiety, Jim nods.

“Yes, Mr Spock. I’ll see you on Alpha.” He heads for the door. “Be sure to check in with Bones before the start of your shift.”

* * *

Spock reports for duty in his normal fashion: ten minutes before the start of his shift, despite making a detour to sickbay. Jim nods at him as he relieves the gamma shift and smiles - it’s good to have Spock back. Life aboard a starship is never without surprises, but it’s always harder when events overtake Spock. Jim relies on his steady presence, and the absence of him, however temporary, had smarted.

Half-way through the shift Spock leaves the bridge to review some experiments his team has been undertaking in lab four, and when he comes back he passes Jim a cup of water.

“Thank you, Mr Spock,” Jim says, bemused. Spock merely nods in acknowledgement before returning to his station. The water is cool and soothing; just what Jim needed. He watches Spock’s back as he resumes his work, noting that Spock hadn’t brought a drink for anyone else. Jim feels the heat rise to his face and looks back at the viewfinder. Thoughtful, he thinks. Spock is thoughtful.

* * *

They spend most of the following week on the edge of Federation space, away from the neutral zone but far enough from home that only subspace comms can reach them. Spock is in his element, the science teams working double time to update their star charts. 

Jim is bored.

Jim is bored and uncomfortable, something about his chair making him restless. He still isn’t sleeping all that well, and he wakes up each morning, sheets damp with sweat from tossing and turning. His palms itch, and so does his collar. He takes to wearing his wrap shirt more often than not, the command gold being relegated to the back of his cupboard for the time being. 

His fatigue has not gone unnoticed, particularly by Bones who calls him in for a medical review. Jim goes affably enough - it’s something to do, and it gives him the chance to speak to Bones about Spock away from the Vulcan’s keen hearing.

“How is he doing?” Jim asks, flat on his back while Bones checks him over with a tricorder. “Numbers any better?”

“Not much change,” Bones says. He sounds defeated. “I don’t know what to tell you, Jim, it’s like he’s still fighting the last of it off.” He frowns at whatever he sees on his screen and prods Jim to sit up. “His brain function has returned to normal but his core temp is still high and his hormone levels, though reduced, are still above the standard. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was coming down with something.” He taps at the tricorder.

“Is something the matter?” Jim asks, watching as Bones frets with the Feinberger. 

By now Bones is double checking his results on a nearby PADD. “Looks like you might be coming down with something yourself.”

“What?” Jim says, surprised. “But I feel fine?”

“I’ll see about that,” Bones mutters, reaching to prod at Jim’s arm. “Any headaches recently, loss of appetite?”

“Some end-of-day strain,” Jim admits, “but nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Hmm,” Bones says, dropping one arm and reaching for the other. “That’s what you get for overworking,” he adds.

“I’ve a ship to run,” Jim says, tone flat in warning. 

“Mmhmm.” Bones checks the monitors again. “And how’s your sleep?”

Jim shrugs as best he can when he’s lying down. “Fine.”

Bones harrumphs. “You know what our walking computer would have to say about that. ‘Fine’ has—”

“—variable definitions, yes,” Jim says with a small laugh, “I know.”

“Well, this should help,” Bones says, administering a hypo. Jim does his best not to flinch. “It’s just a booster in case your body’s trying to fight something off. If you start to feel worse, come back and I’ll give you something stronger.”

Jim sits upright, pulling his shirt back on. “And what about Spock?”

“I’m keeping him under watch for now,” says Bones, “but unless he takes a turn for the worse that’s about as much as I can do.” He crosses his arms. “Maybe if you could persuade him to take some leave…”

“After what he just went through?” Jim asks. “It’s hard to get him to head down even when we’re parked for shore leave.”

“What he went through is why he needs the leave!” Bones exclaims. “Who knows what kind of effect this is going to have on him long term.”

“You can’t force the man,” Jim says, though sometimes he wishes he could. “Besides,” he adds, “we’re all overdue some R&R, and we’re not likely to get it any time soon.” He gets to his feet and rolls his head, easing out the tension in his neck. “Just, keep an eye on him, Bones.”

* * *

The rest of the month passes in much the same way. Command has them route from their surveyance to an ambassadorial pick up, and from there they’re diverted to Omicron Delta to assist in a trade dispute that looks set to overflow into something less civil. Jim spends a couple of days on the surface figuratively knocking heads together, Spock a calming presence at his side. It’s a fairly uneventful mission - not that Jim’s complaining - and by the time they beam up again, Jim feels rejuvenated. It had been cool on the planet’s surface, but not unpleasantly so, and Jim had managed to get some sleep. It’s good to have a win under his belt.

It’s still uncommonly warm on the Enterprise and Jim starts to discard his undershirt before starting each shift. He asks Scotty to check the controls on the bridge, but he doesn’t find anything out of the ordinary - the temperature is still set to ship normal. Spock has taken to bringing him cups of water, enough to become a habit, but infrequently enough not to draw comment, even from Sulu and Chekov who are eagled-eyed as ever. The water is always pleasingly cool, and he tries to ration it out as best he can, taking small sips instead of drinking deep.

Spock, too, seems fine, but his regular check-ups with McCoy, now reduced to once a week, show no signs that his hormone levels are returning to the optimal range.

“It’s the darndest thing,” Bones says. “He should be back to normal by now. Nothing in the literature suggests a permanent change, but it’s like he’s formed a new baseline.”

Maybe he has. Privately Jim wonders if there’s not just something wrong with the environmental controls, even if Scotty’s diagnostics say otherwise. 

* * *

Things start to go awry when they reach Epsilon III. The planet has two moons, both mining colonies, while the surface population is made up of aristocrats. The Enterprise has been sent to broker a peace between the three before Epsilon III can begin proceedings to join the Federation.

Spock had stopped Jim the night before. “Captain, perhaps it would be wise to seek out Doctor McCoy.” 

“Why?”

“Your temperature remains elevated and has done so for over 23 days, and your efficiency has reduced by 8.24%. Furthermore I believe your sleep has been interrupted.”

Jim had looked at him askance. “You can tell that from looking at my face?”

Spock looks uncomfortable. “No, Captain. Merely that I am able to hear you when you are restless.” Jim doesn’t think about how far his room is from Spock’s, separated as they are by the fresher. 

“I’ll try to keep the noise down,” Jim had said, suddenly embarrassed, making an escape for his quarters before Spock can protest. 

Now, as they ready to beam down to the planet’s surface, it’s hard to look Spock in the eye. Jim’s aware now is not the time to broach the subject. Scotty is getting ready to activate the transporter, and Jim and Spock are flanked on both sides by lieutenants from the security team. Jim nods briefly to Spock before taking his place on the dais. “Energize, Mr Scott.”

“Aye, Captain.”

* * *

They’re halfway through the first day of talks when it begins. Jim has spent the day trying not to tug at his collar, but despite the breeze, it’s warm in the Silonians’ diplomatic hall. Scans had indicated a dry heat, but Jim’s palms are damp, sweat lining the nape of his neck, the backs of his knees. Every part of him seems alert to Spock who, seated beside him, is a fixed spot, unflinching and often unblinking. 

Spock brings him water when they break for a recess, unobtrusively passing him the cup while Jim continues his quiet conversation with the Silonian ambassador. He looks up to smile his thanks and— there, an unexpected rush of heat licking through his abdomen, muscles tense. Jim flushes violently, feeling himself begin to grow hard.

“Captain,” Spock interrupts, “are you well?”

“Yes, thank you Mr Spock,” Jim demurs, accepting the water and taking a mouthful. It’s cool, but not enough. Jim tries to refocus on his conversation with the ambassador, turning away from Spock as he does. He forces himself to take slow deep breaths through the nose until gradually his erection goes away. 

It happens, sometimes, though rarely when Jim is on duty. It’s nothing to be ashamed about, he knows, but the timing was inconvenient. He resolves to stay seated for as much of the proceedings as possible, but when they rise for lunch later in the day, Spock is at his elbow, unobtrusive but unyielding.

* * *

Jim has to fight himself at least three more times that day and by the time they retire for the night he’s tired and looking forward to some privacy. Spock, thank goodness, seems impervious, hands clasped behind his back as they make their way to their assigned quarters, discussing the finer points of the day’s discussions.

“I believe if the miners are willing to accede then we may be able to persuade the Silonian officials towards leniency,” he says in low tones as their guide leads them to their lodgings for the evening.

“Yes, quite,” Jim answers distractedly as they’re led to a room at the far end of a corridor. The attending Silonian sketches a bow before departing, so by the time they enter the room, it’s too late to call him back.

There’s only one bed.

Spock freezes within the doorway before making to turn on his heel. “I will speak to someone. There has been a mistake.”

Jim swallows. Normally he wouldn’t try to push their luck, but considering the circumstances, he thinks it would be best. Then again, the Silonians aren’t entirely trusting of them just yet. He doesn’t want to rock the boat.

“It’s fine, Spock,” says Jim, resigned to another night of little-to-no sleep. He can feel his pulse elevate; his palms are tight. He works to keep the heat in his belly from igniting. “No need to seem ungracious. We’ve gotten by on less before, haven’t we?”

Spock looks at him carefully as though ascertaining his sincerity. Whatever he sees on Jim’s face doesn’t pass muster because he straightens, pinning his gaze somewhere by Jim’s ear. “As Vulcans do not require the same amount of sleep as humans, it is only logical that you should take the bed, Captain. I do not need it to complete my meditation.”

Something about the set of his shoulders reminds Jim of Vulcan - the long, lean line of him curved in aggression, the heat of him, the press of his hips. There’s something mildly combative about him in this moment, but softer, too. Defensive, Jim thinks, though he can’t work out why. Somehow Jim has made a mistake. He tries to cover for it.

“If you think it best, Spock,” he says slowly. “But it looks like there’s plenty of room for both of us. And besides, I haven’t been sleeping that much lately.” He ducks to catch Spock’s eye, smiling sheepishly. “I’m sure you’re aware.”

At this admittance, Spock turns concerned. “Perhaps it would be best to return to the ship,” he suggests, but Jim waves him off.

“It’s too late for that, now, and I wouldn’t want to cause any offense. Let’s just bunk down for the night and see if we can’t do better tomorrow.”

Spock indicates that Jim should use the fresher first. They have water showers here, a luxury, and Jim uses them to his advantage, turning the water as cold as it will get in an effort to cool down. His cock lies heavy between his legs, thankfully no longer erect, but not entirely flaccid either. He’ll have to ignore it best he can, he thinks. It wouldn’t be the first time.

By the time he emerges, Spock has changed into his fleet-issued nightwear and is sitting on the floor, legs crossed.

“Don’t stay down there all night,” Jim warns, “I wouldn’t want my First Officer to go without sufficient rest. I need you in top form tomorrow.”

Spock quirks an eyebrow. “Yes, sir.”

* * *

When Jim wakes in the morning it takes him a moment to realize where he is. Somewhere over the course of the night Spock had followed his instruction and slipped into the bed. It’s hardly cosy; there’s space for at least three grown men, but Jim wakes to find himself pressed into Spock’s back, face between his shoulder blades, one leg between both of his, and sweating. Spock smells the same as he did on Vulcan, scent low but spiked with spice. It speaks to how comfortable Jim is that he doesn’t immediately notice that he’s hard, the line of his cock pressed firmly to Spock’s buttocks. He freezes, horrified, before slowly peeling away and padding to the fresher.

He can’t go on like this, he thinks, slipping into the shower and turning on the water. It’s time to take care of business once and for all.

* * *

The whole day is a wash. When he emerges from the fresher, it’s clear Spock has only just woken, and despite having taken himself in hand, Jim can feel his blood stirring again. It irritates him, and he finds himself snapping at Spock. “We haven’t all day, Commander. Hop to it.”

“Yes, Captain,” Spock says, visibly confused. He doesn’t protest, however, and fifteen minutes later they depart for breakfast. 

It’s warm again, Jim thinks, knowing he must be red in the face. If Spock thinks he’s acting peculiar then he doesn’t mention it, covertly scanning the offered food with his tricorder and steering Jim gently away from anything that could upset his admittedly finicky allergies. Jim nods at him once in acknowledgement before taking his plate and sitting with the Silonian ambassador and his counterpart from the mining colonies. Spock takes a seat opposite, nonplussed by Jim’s avoidance, his confusion apparent in the line of his spine and the careful way in which he eats. Jim’s never met anyone so pointed in all his life as Spock. Before joining the Enterprise he’d had no idea that someone could convey so many thoughts just by the way they cut into their breakfast. Spock is an education in multitudes.

Tensions are high today with the miners’ representative beginning to lose his temper over proceedings. Despite what they might have hoped, the miners are unwilling to cede any control of their operations, having little faith in the Silonian’s promises that they will retain independence. While not entirely unexpected, Jim wonders how anyone is going to make progress if neither side is willing to give the others the benefit of doubt. The fight between the Silonians and the miners has been going on for years: the Silonians hold the wealth; the miners hold the ore. 

To make matters worse, Jim is feeling on edge. He’d slept relatively well for once, but taking the edge off that morning hadn’t done the trick, and he finds himself trying to ignore the press of his own trousers in a desperate attempt to stave off his arousal. During the recess, Spock brings him another cup of water, but Jim leaves it on the table, making a quick break for the bathroom instead. He doesn’t have much time - closing the door behind him, he pushes his hand beneath the waist of his trousers and squeezes himself roughly, just the wrong side of too tight. There isn’t time to sort this out now and he can’t afford to be distracted. He tucks himself away hoping he can get through the rest of the day. He doesn’t understand what’s happening; nothing of what they’re discussing is particularly titillating. He washes his face in cool water before doing his best to straighten himself out.

Spock is waiting for him outside the restroom. “Captain, may I be of assistance?”

“You can start by heading back to the talks, Commander.” Jim’s tone is harsher than he’d like but Spock won’t let him be. It’s starting to grate. He brushes past him in long strides, heading back to the table as quickly as possible. By the time Spock takes his place again, Jim is already seated and going over his notes.

He feels Spock’s gaze on him the rest of the morning. 

* * *

Jim just about makes it through the day without embarrassing himself. When the assembly disperses for lunch he waves Spock off, reaching for his comm. “I’ll join you shortly,” he says. “I need to check in with the ship first.”

Despite the dismissal, Spock straightens, clasping his hands being his back. “Captain, have I done something to displease you?”

“No,” Jim’s denial is instinctive, “no, nothing like that.” He runs a hand across his brow. “I’m just tired, Spock, and these talks look like they’re going to go on for a while.”

Spock seems to soften at that. “Both parties seem remarkably unwilling to come to an accord,” he remarks.

Jim can’t help but laugh quietly at the understatement. “I’ll say.” He looks at Spock properly then, noting how every inch of him seems primed with caution. He feels bad about it, knowing he’s to blame. “I’m all right, Spock. I’ll see you in a minute.”

He watches as Spock leaves before pocketing his comm. He decides he needs to take a walk. Fresh air will do him good.

* * *

Over the course of the afternoon, Jim finds himself hyper aware of Spock’s proximity, the heat of him pressing along Jim’s side from shoulder to hip, their arms occasionally brushing as Jim gesticulates. His blood is still up; his collar feels tight. There’s a breeze coming in from across the room but its relief is short-lived.

Tempers are high amongst the Silonians and the miners, neither side willing to concede ground. 

“You lie!” exclaims the Silonian ambassador. “We have given you homes, cared for your families, and yet you hold us to ransom by withholding the ore we need to run our industries, our lives!”

“We slave away every day in untenable conditions,” the miner rebuts, “while you grow fat off the fruits of our labors. You live like kings while we forage like rats!”

Jim has to intervene. “Gentlemen, please—”

“And you, Federation scum!” The miners turn on Jim; beside him Spock tenses. “You think to impose your will here, to lend the Silonians aid while every day our brothers die in the mines!”

“Now wait a minute!” Jim says, the situation slipping from his grasp, anger swelling under his ribs like an unbroken storm. He starts when he feels Spock lay a hand on his knee in restraint. He realizes he’s been tapping his foot out of frustration, voice rising to match the assembly’s increasingly embittered tones. Spock’s touch is like a brand through his clothes, sparking through Jim’s body like lightning. He stiffens immediately within the confines of his trousers, unable to stave off his rapid flush. Beside him, Spock is absolutely still.

Jim swallows thickly, taking a deep breath. He lets it out slowly, trying to ignore the press of Spock’s palm on his leg. “We’re all here to ensure a fair deal for Epsilon III and all its people, including your men in the moon colonies. The sooner we can establish trust, the sooner we can start to make progress.” He looks back at Spock and thinks how that’s easier said than done.

* * *

“Captain,” Spock says as soon as they enter their assigned quarters, “I must apologize.”

“There’s no need, Commander,” Jim says. “You prevented me from escalating the situation. An apology is unnecessary.”

“Indeed, Captain, I am gratified that you believe so,” Spock says, fixing his hands behind his back, “but that is not the matter to which I was referring.”

“Oh?” Jim turns away, makes to put away his PADD for the day and retrieves a change of clothing. Behind him Spock is an ever-fixed mark in his attention. He remembers this, too, from Vulcan: how aware he had been of Spock’s every move, almost to the exclusion of all others. It had been hard to fight with Spock, knowing he couldn’t help himself, but also knowing that given half the chance he would kill Jim, such was the strength of his anger, his hunger. He thinks briefly of how it had felt, sprawled out across the sand, Spock above and around him, the weight of him a threat - an unfulfilled promise. 

He shivers, despite himself.

“Captain, I believe I am responsible for your current state of distress,” Spock says.

Jim frowns. “How so, Commander?”

Spock’s face is devoid of all emotion, so still that it has to be covering a maelstrom. Something about him feels like a wince, Jim thinks, like he’s fighting himself to speak. For a moment Jim is reminded of their conversation before they’d arrived at Vulcan, Jim pushing Spock when Spock didn’t want to be pushed. Jim does that, he knows. He pushes and Spock yields, every time. He’d never considered before how un-Vulcan that is.

“Spock?” Jim prompts when no answer is forthcoming.

“I believe,” Spock says, choosing his words with deliberation, “you are suffering the effects of _pon farr_.”

* * *

Though there is little literature on the subject, there is enough information within Vulcan society to know that should a Vulcan choose to undergo their mating with an offworlder - specifically with someone who is not Vulcan - the telepathic component of the mating extends in such a manner as to afflict the intended bondmate.

By which Spock means: _pon farr_ can be inherited by non-Vulcan partners.

It takes a while for Spock to explain but by the end Jim needs to sit down. In the absence of any kind of chair he perches on the end of the bed, trying not to think about the strain in his extremities. It makes a kind of sense, he thinks, mulling over the events of the past few weeks. His symptoms are relatively mild - there’s no hormonal component, or so Bones’ latest scans the week before had confirmed. For the most part Jim has been under the impression that his body has been fighting off the nascent stages of the flu, and had it not been for the persistent and inconvenient tumescence, he might have gone on thinking that.

“Does this mean you’re still going through it?” he asks. “ _Pon farr_ , I mean?” He makes to stand. “Do we need to go back to Vulcan?”

Spock holds up a hand, indicating that Jim should remain seated. “Captain, I believe that Doctor McCoy’s intervention on Vulcan broke the _plak tow_. I do not anticipate a recurrence of the frenzy.” He shuffles then, uncertain. “However, it remains true that I emerged from the other side of my Time without a mating bond. Such things are not uncommon, but it is unusual to undergo _pon farr_ without…” he trails off, unable to verbalize the rest of the thought.

“You mean it’s unusual to go through the Time of Mating without actually mating?” Jim asks.

“Indeed.”

Jim nods, unthinkingly, his mind elsewhere. “And it’s affecting me because?”

Spock looks away. “You were the one with whom I combatted the fires,” he says at last. 

“But that was the challenge, as issued by T’Pring,” Jim says.

“The mind under _plak tow_ does not discern intent,” Spock says, “merely your presence. _Koon’ut’kal’i’fee_ is mating or challenge. Both can be violent.”

Jim thinks back to how it had felt in the sand, Spock towering above him, the fear inherent but also the heat of it, a gnawing thing in the pit of his stomach - how he could have enjoyed himself, given half the chance. He twitches within the confines of his briefs. He feels a corresponding pressure in his chest and tries to take deep, long breaths without drawing attention to himself. He is sweating.

“If you are willing,” Spock says, “I believe I am able to alleviate your symptoms.”

Jim’s head snaps up, eyes wide. Does Spock mean—? But he can’t, surely, not that.

And yet Spock seems perfectly composed as he continues. “It is not an inconvenience to me, and I believe would allay my own,” here he pauses infinitesimally, “experiences.”

“Spock,” Jim says, unable to form coherent thoughts, his body betraying him even as he tries to retain his dignity. If this is what it was like for Spock before they journeyed to the surface he can’t imagine how he survived - he was a Vulcan, taught from birth to show restraint, to eschew all emotion. This turmoil that churns in Jim’s belly must have been torturous for Spock, who prized his rational mind over all things. “Spock, I can’t ask you to do that.”

“It is I who make myself available to you, Captain,” Spock says. “I am aware of your attraction to me.” He approaches slowly. “If it is amenable to you, I wish to offer my assistance. There will be no lasting ramifications. I will not meld with you against your will.”

Jim comes to his feet, taking a moment to look at Spock, to try to read his body language. For all his impassivity, he is remarkably open. If Jim didn’t know any better he might guess that Spock is reporting for duty, offering the most logical solution in an effort to get from A to B as quickly as possible, where A is a situation that cannot be allowed to continue and B is a return to form. It might be a logical course of action, but Jim’s not sure whether that makes it the right one. He knows himself, he knows how he gets. A taste of what he wants is never enough.

He’s about to turn Spock down when he catches the look in his eyes. It’s where his tells lie, there and in his scapulae, the way he straightens under watch almost without moving at all. His gaze may be direct, but the corners of his eyes— yes, they’re pinched, ever so slightly. 

Logic is the start of the answer, but it isn’t the whole thing.

“You want me as well,” Jim murmurs, hope unfurling in his chest. 

Spock raises his hands, softly cupping Jim’s face. His touch is blessedly cool. “Indeed,” he answers, tipping his head to meet Jim’s own.

“Wait, Spock,” Jim places his hands over Spock’s wrists, noting with delight the light shiver that passes through him. “I don’t want you to do this out of obligation. This isn’t your fault, and it’s not your responsibility.”

“I confess, Captain, that I do hold myself responsible. And yet,” he adds, drawing his nose along Jim’s own, “it is also true that after the events on Vulcan I wished to approach you and ask whether you would choose to enter into an assignation with me.” 

Jim can hardly believe what he’s hearing, his heart pounding in his chest like the advent of war. That Spock would come to him, that Spock would want to ask— it lights him up, every cell aflame with wonder and delight.

“You didn’t come to me,” Jim says.

“You seemed distracted,” Spock replies. “I could not be certain of your desires, and of late you have been distressed.” He brushes his thumb over Jim’s cheek, a delicate gesture, filled with tenderness and unspoken longing. “It seemed prudent to wait until you had regained your equilibrium.”

Jim laughs. He’s about as far from equilibrium as he could be. Nevertheless, he reaches for Spock, hands light on his hips, urging him closer. “I’m sorry to disrupt your plans, Mr Spock. Are you available now?”

He lifts his face before Spock can answer, brushing his lips gently with his own, once, twice, a third time, drinking small, sweet kisses while he can. His arousal is insistent, a living thing within his body, but he puts it aside for now, mindful not to ask for too much, too soon.

Spock has no such compunctions. “I believe my schedule is clear,” he says, and Jim laughs, circling his waist until they’re chest to chest, hungry for the feel of him, the taste. Spock slides a leg between Jim’s and urges him backwards until the backs of his knees hit the bed and he goes down, Spock following after him. He doesn’t make Jim wait longer than he has to.

* * *

They return to the Enterprise two days later, having successfully brokered peace between the various parties on Epsilon III, readying them for entry to the Federation. The USS Endeavor will be along in six months to check progress and begin the proceedings. For now, Jim’s work is done. He shakes the hands of each of the ambassadors and representatives while Spock, a reliable step behind him, raises his hand in the _ta’al_.

Bones is waiting for them when they beam back up, bouncing on the soles of his feet. “I want you both in sickbay for a post-mission check,” he says, scowling at Spock in particular. “I don’t suppose you’ve noticed any change in the past few days?”

“On the contrary, Doctor,” Spock says, looking at Jim, “I believe I find myself fully recovered.”

“I’ll see about that,” Bones says before rounding on Jim. “And you?”

“You were right, Bones,” says Jim, clapping his hands together, “a little fresh air has done wonders.”

“I’m always right,” Bones mutters. “You do look better. Still, I want you in sickbay so I can get you under a tricorder.”

As they make their way after Bones, Jim turns to Spock. 

“He’s going to know as soon as he gets a look at our readings, isn’t he?”

“It is highly likely,” Spock concurs, hands behind his back in his usual manner.

“Does that bother you?” Jim asks.

“I am a Vulcan, Captain. It is not possible for me to become ‘bothered’,” Spock says, a hint of a smile playing on his lips - lips which just that morning had been warm and wet beneath Jim’s own, a promise of sweeter things to come.

Jim smiles, straightening his shirt. “I stand corrected, Mr Spock.” If he knocks lightly into Spock’s shoulder there’s no one to know but the two of them.

> _We know we will  
>  sweat, as we always do, cursing  
>  the rigor of southern suns,  
>  happy, no matter what we say,  
>  to be wherever we happen to be_
> 
> _**— Phoebe Davidson, Another Life** _

**THE END.**

**Author's Note:**

> Title and epigraph from Phoebe Davidson's _Another Life_. Thank you to [Door](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Door) for the beta!


End file.
